The Kids Aren't Alright
by The Fire Dancer
Summary: Sid is used to the lonely life of the solitary Hunter. But when one of her only friends is found brutally murdered and her child missing, what starts out as a simple hunt spirals out of control - and Sid might have to admit she's outgunned. Luckily, a couple of Winchesters just so happen to be in the area...
1. Now I'm Here

_**The Kids Aren't Alright**_

**Chapter 1: Now I'm Here**

After some time all the roads around here begin to look the same – the narrow turns, drifting headlights and bold signs become a blur as I wander from town to town with nothing but a car full of weapons, books and disguises to keep me company. As I round another bend my car radio gleefully picks up a new station, and starts bleating at me with an uninspired guitar riff.

"_Them pantyhose ain't gonna last too long_

_If the DJ puts Bon Jovi on_

_She might come home in a table cloth_

_Yeah, tequila makes her clothes fall off._"

"…the hell is this crap?" I mutter to myself. I don't often talk to myself in the car, but when I do it's usually about questionable music on the radio.

Reaching down, I fidget with my car's radio tuner, trying to find one station that isn't playing country. After static, country, static, country, country, I settle on a faint station playing an Eminem hit that's so old I remember it from parties in high school. Now those are some distant memories.

Eyes on the road, my mind drifts back to a time when my biggest concerns were being allowed to go to parties and Mac stealing my clothes. There were shadows then too – the angry spirit that followed Dad home from a case, the weird demonic snake thing that Mum had to light on fire before getting Mac and me to dowse it in holy water, countless others. But back then hunting was an option: I had a life, friends, and a future.

Now hunting is everything. An endless lonely cycle of wandering, death, moments of sheer terror and occasionally saving someone. That last part makes up for it most of the time. But sometimes I wish I could go back to when hunting was in the background of my life.

My phone lets out a shrill ring, bursting to life in its little holder near my dashboard. I glance at the screen. It's a number I don't recognize with an Illinois area code. Haven't been there in months, but I do have contacts there. I hit _answer_.

"Yeah?"

"_Sidney?_" a female voice asks in an urgent, breathy tone. I haven't spoken to this woman in over a year, but I recognize her voice immediately.

"Carla," I say, both glad to hear from her, and wary about the reason she's calling.

Carla Brown is a tough-as-nails single mother from Rosiclare who took me into her own home after finding me unconscious, drenched and bleeding on a bank of the Ohio River. When I came to, she gave me a long talk about her violent ex-husband, how she knew what I was going through and that suicide wasn't the answer. She shook her head every time I tried to explain it was a "hunting accident", but changed her tune pretty quick once the river monster tracked me to her house. Through the water pipes.

Eyeing my phone, I slow my car down. If Carla's in trouble, I can turn around and take the I-172 to Illinois. "Carla, are you ok?"

"_Me, yes_," she answers quickly. There's a pause. "_But… you said to call you if anything, strange, well, if I need…_"

"What happened? Is Megan-"

"_Megan's fine. She's asleep. It's my friend Louise, from Elizabethtown. She's dead._"

I wait for Carla to elaborate, sensing her reluctance to reveal anything that's going to make her sound crazy. She wouldn't call me unless her friend's death was unexplainable, terrifying, and most likely of paranormal causes. After more silence, I coax her. "Tell me everything you know."

"_I found her last Sunday. I was supposed to pick her up for church and a lunch date – we try to do it every month. Her house was unlocked, and her body was in the front room, all twisted. Her neck was broken. The police ruled it an accident. They said she must have fallen down the stairs that night, in the dark._"

"And you don't believe that."

Her breathing is shaky, and I can hear her trying to contain sobs. "_Her body was hanging in mid-air, Sidney. Just floating right in front of me when I opened the door. As soon as I touched her, she fell to the ground._"

Without another thought, I yank the steering wheel and turn the car around, tires screeching.

"_The police say I must have imagined it in my traumatized state, that what I described in my statement is impossible. Bullshit. I know it's easier to assume the black woman's crazy than admit something could have done that to a person, I get that. But Louise didn't fall down no damn stairs, and whatever killed her could still be out there._"

Carla's anger and grief and fear is palpable, even through the phone. I do the calculations in my head. "I can be in Rosiclare in twelve hours."

A heavy sigh of relief comes from the other end of the phone. "_Oh honey, thank you. I shoulda called you straight away. Listen, there's something else. Louise's daughter's missing. Now, she's a little troubled, and she's run away before, so I'm not sure if it's connected. She disappeared for three weeks once, then turned up just fine. But, what if…?_"

"I'm on my way."

For the first time during the call, Carla's voice grows steadier, and she sounds more like the no-nonsense mother she is, and less like a terrified woman who's seen the unthinkable. "_You stay at my place, and for as long as you need_. _Don't even think about paying for one of those roach trap motels you're always stayin' at._ _Do you need money?_"

I ignore that, as always. "You still got the protections up around your house?"

"_Yes. And I'm not letting Megan out of my sight until you get here_."

"Good. Stay safe Carla, I'm coming. Don't do anything until I get there, ok?"

"_Thanks again, hon. You take care now, and I'll see you soon._"

* * *

It's late afternoon by the time I reach Rosiclare, following the directions to Carla's house by heart even though I haven't been there in a year. It's a combination of good instincts and memories that guides me through the dusty roads, past manicured lawns and squabbling kids on bikes. But as I get closer to her street, I realize with a slow dread that something is very, very wrong.

Her street has been cordoned off with bright yellow tape emblazoned with _Crime Scene: Do Not Cross_. Bad sign. I slow my car to a crawl, reminding myself to keep calm. It might not be Carla. But if it is, I'll need a cover, and I don't want my vehicle spotted at the crime scene. Instead of approaching the murmuring crowd and uniformed police officers, I quickly turn my car around and park one street away.

Rummaging in the glove compartment beside me, I retrieve two silver knives and slip them into the hidden sheaths in my boots, before loading my Smith &amp; Wesson. Once the street is clear, I swing out of my car, sliding my gun into its familiar holster and making my way to Carla's house on foot.

I'm dialing Carla's number as I turn the corner, keeping my distance from the crowd and trying to look like your average nosy pedestrian. _Pick up,_ I think to myself, as if I can force Carla to be alive through sheer determination. The ringing on her end echoes just like I was afraid it would, and my walking pace quickens. _Pick up, pick up, pick up_.

Her phone rings out and I grit my teeth as her voicemail message comes on. _Oh please, don't let me be too late._ I've almost reached the police tape now, and I can make out the patrol cars and white vans parked haphazardly in front of Carla and Megan's brick home.

"Just awful," an old Italian man says beside me, shaking his head solemnly. I lower my phone, hanging up without leaving a voicemail message.

"What happened?" I ask, trying to convey wide-eyed curiosity rather than fear.

"Carla Brown in number 23, she's been killed, and her little girl is missing. Damn shame."

The world stops. No, no, _no_. I'm too late. Everything spins a little as I turn back to the house, watching police officers and crime scene analysts converging on Carla's lawn.

"Oh, Jesus," I breathe. My mind runs screaming straight through that police tape, and I visualize it beating down police officers to get to Carla's door. I blink, hard. "How was she killed?"

"Roy Wheeler's girl," the man says, pointing to a little blonde girl about twelve-years-old, huddled in a grey blanket with her father hovering protectively between her and a detective. "She came by to visit Megan, and found Carla dead in the living room, neck broken. No sign of Megan."

I take note of the information as the man continues. "They aren't saying it of course, but I'll bet my life it was that no-good ex-husband of hers. Mark my words, that son of a bitch broke in there, throttled poor Carla, and took off with the daughter. Damn shame."

The man wanders back to his wife, still muttering about Carla's ex, and I almost wish he was right. If Carla's killer is her plain old ex-husband I can hunt him down just fine, before beating him within an inch of his life and handing him over to the cops. But the similarities to Louise's murder – mother with broken neck, missing daughter – spells case. I spin on my heel and walk swiftly away, swallowing a lump in my throat as I do so.

There's no way I'm getting close to the crime scene for hours, and without any contacts in Rosiclare or Mac's "skills", I don't have the option of posing as a fed to investigate. I'm going to have to get a room for the night and begin researching the area. Preferably starting with the local bar. You'd be surprised at the things you can learn about a town once you buy a round for the bar.

Afterwards, I'll have to go back to my room and do what every hunter dreads – open a murder case file for someone I knew.

After fifteen minutes of driving, I've found a suitably seedy motel and booked a room for the week, posing as a tourist. My plan is to shower, change, then head to nearest bar and start mingling with the locals. Carla's murder will be the talk of the town, I'm guessing. So I'll act shocked when I hear about it, and concerned about Megan's disappearance, and shake my head at all the right moments in conversation, all while doing my best not to let on that this case is deeply, deeply personal.

It's only when I'm finally in the safety of my room's squeaky shower, steaming hot water running over my face, that I do something I very rarely allow myself to do.

Shaking, I clutch my face in my hands and cry.

* * *

**A/N: Sid's not alone in wanting to solve Carla's murder - stay tuned for the next chapter, when she runs into two certain brothers who also want in on this case!**

**Song lyrics taken from "Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off" by Joe Nichols.**

**If you liked this, please make my day and take the time to leave a review. :)**


	2. I'll Wait

_**The Kids Aren't Alright**_

**Chapter 2: I'll Wait**

The following morning, cloaked in the shadows of pre-dawn, I silently circle Carla's house, ignoring the garish yellow police tape and being careful not to leave prints. Despite the beers I downed last night at the Riverwater Saloon – a dive bar I discovered not too far from my motel – my senses are keen and alert. I decide on my entry point as soon as I spot it: an open side window which I remember leads to Carla's laundry room. Scanning my surroundings once more, I steal across the side garden and hoist myself onto the windowsill, slipping inside the house.

I quietly drop to the tiled floor and crouch low, listening intently, but I already know I'm alone in the house. The place is awash with silence, as if it knows it was robbed of the two lives that should be there. I wonder, as I always do when investigating a murder, whether I'll be joined by the victim's vengeful spirit. It's happened once or twice before. Sometimes it actually helps.

But despite itching to avenge Carla, her daughter's disappearance is my biggest concern now. If there's no body, I've got to assume the kid's alive. Which means Louise's daughter could also be alive. Which means the clock is ticking.

The first thing I do is check the protections. Pulling out my battered old EMF reader, I begin a slow walkthrough of the house, with only the muted squeals of the reader breaking the rigid silence.

I helped Carla spook-proof this house myself, once she learned the hard way I wasn't kidding about the existence of monsters and demons. As a Christian woman, Carla already had plenty of holy paraphernalia littered around. At my insistence we also lined her doorframes and windows with rock salt and sealed them, leaving the salt lines permanently in place. We painted protection sigils under the wallpaper in Megan's room, devil's traps under carpets, and installed plenty of iron "decorations" across anything that could be used as an entrance.

A quick sweep of the Brown house reveals that all the protections are still in place, there are no traces of sulfur, and the EMF reader hasn't picked up anything odd. No way any asshole ghost, demon or fairy could've gotten into this place. Unfortunately, the list of things that _could_ have is still pretty long.

Upstairs, I find myself in Megan's bedroom. The bed is unmade, shoes and clothes are strewn all over the place, but there's no sign of a struggle. It's a typical twelve-year-old girl's room, the awkward cusp of childhood and adolescence illustrated by the stuffed toys lying right beside an open make-up kit on the dresser.

Sighing, I pull out my phone and start photographing the room while my mind ticks over the theories. What kind of creature could get past the house's protections, kill Carla, then take her daughter without leaving a trace?

Demons, fairies and spirits are out. Killing a woman doesn't fit an Amazon's MO, and a shtriga would've left Megan's body right where it drained her. Changelings, maybe? None like I'd ever seen before but if it means Megan is being kept alive somewhere I can't rule it out. Wendigo, vampires? No – Carla was killed, but it was clean. Nothing that feeds on flesh or blood did this.

The unwanted image of Carla on the living room floor comes to mind, and I try not to imagine the sick sound of her neck snapping. So when a car door slams outside I jump out of my skin. Footsteps are approaching the house, crunching through dry grass, and I can hear a muffled conversation growing louder.

I bolt to Megan's window and ease the curtain open ever so slightly, revealing the town sheriff and two suited men trudging across Carla's lawn below. The sheriff is lifting the crime scene tape with one hand and gesturing with the other. The men in suits are young, early thirties at most, and seem to be listening to the sheriff with a practiced cynicism.

Feds. Shit.

Darting away from the window, I mentally go over escape routes and hiding places. It's past daybreak now, meaning I can't risk using the second-floor windows or the roof. As soon as I hear the _click_ of the front door, I decide there's no time to get to a ground level exit either.

"And this is where she was found…" the sheriff's drawl floats up the stairs. Panicking, I reluctantly choose my hiding place. I dive under Megan's bed, silently pushing aside rumpled t-shirts and curling up as tight as possible. As soon as every part of my body is tucked underneath the tiny bed, I pull the blankets down, and arrange shirts and shoes around me in a sort of barricade. Hopefully they'll mistake me as part of the mess.

If I'm caught here, I'm going to be embarrassed as hell.

"Little Jackie Wheeler – a friend of Megan's – she found the body." I strain my ears as the sheriff continues – the house has been so quiet until now that his voice carries like gunshots. "The girl said the damndest thing, that she found Mrs. Brown hangin' up in the air. Babbled on and on about it. Gotta be some sort of kid's psychological reaction to the incident, right?"

My world goes perfectly still, and a dull ringing starts in my ears.

"Most likely," a second voice answers, cool and professional, but fading away. They're moving around the house. "Is there anything else that might explain why she said that?"

The sheriff clears his throat, and I can sense him getting defensive. Small town cops don't like outsiders poking around their cases, and they _really_ don't like outsiders treating victims and tragedies as numbers. Everything is personal.

"Jackie stumbled across her first corpse, Agent Young. She's a twelve-year-old girl. I would say that explains her reaction, yeah. "

"You didn't find anything out of the ordinary yourself?" the other agent asks. His voice is gruff and clipped – and getting closer. I hear footsteps approaching the stairs.

"Nothing other than what says in my report. Mrs. Brown's neck was busted, she probably fell down the stairs. Or was pushed. But you go ahead and have a look around." I hear a note of sarcasm in that last part. The agents are probably already combing the house, with or without the sheriff's consent.

Two sets of footsteps climb the stairs towards Megan's room, and I take a slow, deep breath, willing my body to lie perfectly still. From my vantage point under the bed, between a white fluffy rabbit and a red striped sweater, I spy two sets of dress shoes entering the bedroom.

The first pauses at the entrance, taking the scene in. The second walks towards the bed – I hold my breath and resolve to knock these guys out and bail if I'm discovered. Sadly, taking out feds isn't the worst thing I've ever done. Instead, the owner of the second set of shoes strides around the bed and heads to the window.

"Dean, what is it?" the one at the door asks.

"Iron." It's all he says, but even in an undertone the word is laden with significance. The other guy joins Dean at the window and for a moment I'm impressed – the iron protections at Megan's window aren't all that noticeable.

"Salt, too," the other one adds quietly. "It's been set in place at every doorway and window. You think she knew something was coming for her? Or her daughter?"

"Maybe," the other answers, pausing at Megan's dresser. "Or maybe it was a precaution. Iron, salt, crosses – this is basic, cover-your-bases type stuff."

"Well, looks like it wasn't enough."

Feds who are familiar with the paranormal applications of iron and salt? This is new. Maybe Carla's murder caught the attention of a special taskforce or something. Maybe the States actually have taskforces designed to help hunters and I've just never heard of them. We don't have anything like that back in Australia.

After what seems like hours and far too many steps towards the bed, the two feds finally exit the room. I quietly let out the breath I've been holding as I hear them checking other rooms in the house. My mind ticks over whether these agents could be useful, but I quickly shoot that idea down – I don't trust law enforcement to handle hunting cases, not even the ones that know what salt lines are for. Megan is out there somewhere, and Louise's daughter too, and for their sake I can't risk trusting feds right now.

Unfortunately, most of this job entails lying in wait, and I ignore the cramps forming in my arms and legs as the agents join the sheriff downstairs and ask more questions. I'll have to be certain they're out of the house before I can move. But as soon as I'm moving? I'm finding Megan. And if she isn't alive, whoever did this is going to pay.

That much I know.

* * *

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	3. Night Prowler

_**The Kids Aren't Alright**_

**Chapter 3: Night Prowler**

Crap. I recognize them as soon as I walk into the Riverwater Saloon – those two federal agents from this morning, tucked away in a brown leather booth and absorbed in conversation. They're seated away from the bar entrance, but still have a prime view of who comes in and out.

They've both abandoned the black suits in favor of more casual getup: jeans, flannels, jackets. I spy a faded Led Zeppelin t-shirt underneath the jacket of the first guy, as he gestures aggressively at his companion. The other one leans forward in defeat, a mop of tangled golden brown hair falling across his face. I briefly wonder what they're arguing about.

They haven't noticed me yet, and in turn I pretend I haven't seen them. I strut towards the bar, trying to walk slowly enough to hear their conversation, but casually enough to seem like an aimless customer, taking in the scene.

The two men fall silent and watch as I walk past, and for once I hope it's my low-cut top that's gotten their attention, and not the knives in my boots, or my concealed sidearm, or the fact I was hanging around their crime scene earlier. Dread pools in my stomach as I feel their eyes follow me to the bar. This hunt is way too important for me to get arrested now.

Job to do, Sid. No time for paranoia. Act the part.

Kyle is behind the bar again, wiping his hands on his black apron, and he lights up hopefully when we make eye contact. He's a nice enough guy, in his late twenties with curly blonde hair, friendly blue eyes, and a habit of rolling and unrolling his shirt sleeves mid-conversation. I've made a point to befriend as many locals as possible, but Kyle has taken it a step further, having offered no less than four times to "show me around" town last night. The subtext is pretty clear. On any other occasion I'd consider it. Unfortunately, Kyle picked a bad week.

"It's my favorite Australian," Kyle announces as I lean against the mahogany bar top. Those friendly blue eyes stray downwards towards my chest and up again. "I was hoping to see you again, Sid."

I flash him what I hope is a flirty smile. "You didn't tell me this town is so gorgeous this time of year," I say in mock accusation. I play up my accent, run a hand through my dark hair and widen my eyes – on the off-chance those feds are watching me, I want to seem like a typical ditzy tourist. "I think I'll stay a few more days. So you'll be seeing a lot more of me."

"Sure hope so," Kyle replies without missing a beat. He leans forward and gives me a conspiring wink, pulling a bottle of tequila out of the speed rack. "Shot to celebrate?"

I wonder if Kyle's been listening to that "Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off" song. Either way, the last thing I need to be doing is puking up shots while working a case.

"Tempting, but better just make it a beer, Kyle," I laugh, waving the tequila away.

"Make it two, Kyle," suggests a voice from behind me. I glance over my shoulder to see Suspected Fed #1, holding two fingers up in a V and giving me a cocky grin. "The lady's is on me."

Kyle's face darkens a little as he turns back to the fridge. I try to compose myself as Suspected Fed #1 fixes his charming smile on me. He couldn't know, could he? I turn to face him and nod my thanks, casually leaning an arm against the bar. "So nice of you, uh…"

"Dean," he says, stretching his hand out. I take it, noting the fact he doesn't use _Agent_ or _Officer_.

"Sidney," I answer. He presses my fingers gently and releases them, still smiling. I can't work out if I'm about to be interrogated or hit on. They can be pretty similar.

"Sidney," Dean repeats approvingly, rolling the word around his mouth as if testing it. "Not from around here, huh?"

"Gee, what gave me away?" I ask dryly, each of us knowing very well an Australian accent stands out like dogs balls in these parts. I don't even want to think about how my half-Asian features go down.

"You're the first good-looking person I've seen for miles," Dean says instead. "Gotta be from someplace else."

That's a new one. I can't help laughing in spite of myself, and Dean waggles his dark eyebrows at me. Kyle hands me my drink, but slams Dean's bottle down with an ominous _clank_, causing the beer to foam up. Dean doesn't seem to care and leans against the bar alongside me, already far too comfortable. "Thanks, Kyle," he says, with all the satisfaction of the guy who got the girl.

I study Dean's face, noticing that the relaxed charm he radiates is very practiced, almost exaggerated – he wears his overconfidence like a mask. Tousled brown hair, stubble scattered over his neck and jaw, and his eyes are a surprising shade of green that's quite piercing when he's not grinning. I feel a slight flutter in my stomach, which I quickly silence with a mouthful of beer. Is it possible he's too attractive to be a fed? Or could this be some kind of twisted bait job?

"So you must be named after the city," Dean says, taking a swig from his bottle. "Patriotic parents?"

OK, now I'm impressed – most people around these parts assume I'm British, and definitely don't make the connection to Sydney, Australia. Dean's got a good ear. Hopefully not so good he heard me under Megan's bed this morning.

"My dad's an English teacher," I lie, recycling my usual story. "He named me after Sydney Carton in _A Tale of Two Cities._"

Dean nods politely, but I suspect he's not so hot on Charles Dickens. He certainly wouldn't know that my name and Sydney Carton's are spelled completely differently, or that my dad's more likely to use a book as a weapon than read it.

I suddenly realize Dean's only bought a beer for each of us, and seemingly forgotten about his partner. "Shouldn't you be getting back to your friend?" I ask.

Dean's expression grows quizzical. "Friend?" he repeats, tilting his head good-naturedly.

"Aren't you here with someone?" I regret the words as soon as I say them. I shouldn't let on I've observed his partner – ditzy tourists don't notice details like that. I quickly change my tone to playful. "A guy like you must have a girlfriend waiting for you back there."

He shakes his head, sidling a little closer. "You think I'd be buying a beer for a girl I just met if I had a girlfriend here?"

"Doesn't hurt to get things straight," I say, hoping my bluntness might turn him off a little.

"I'm here on my own," Dean says, before flicking his gaze at me. "Well, I _was_."

As we clink bottles I resist the urge to glance behind me and check the booth. I have the strong impression that Suspected Fed #2 has disappeared, leaving me alone with Dean. Why they would do that is anyone's guess, but I have no choice but to play along until I can get rid of Dean and get back to my plan.

"So are _you_ a local, Dean?" I ask, already tuning out his answer. I'm too busy secretly formulating a way to lose him without arousing any suspicions. Cute guys come and go, but I've got a job to do.

* * *

The second the door to the men's room swings closed, I've gathered my jacket in one efficient swoop and bailed, depositing enough cash on the bar to cover a tip for Kyle on the way out. I'm often tight for cash, but tipping is a strict rule I've set for myself. Making friends with locals is essential to the Lone Female Hunter lifestyle, especially when she's not in her home country. People will remember – and if necessary, help – a nice stranger who tips well.

I feel a little bad for ditching Dean. In half an hour of small talk he's actually proved himself quite intelligent and charming, but I can't ignore the gut feeling that pulls me away like a kid tugging at her mother's sleeves. Something is lurking in this area, something is outside those bar doors that is way more important than laughing at Dean's jokes.

There's something I need to hunt.

Outside, the parking lot is thick with darkness, and the noise of the bar behind me fades into silence. I tug my jacket around me as the cool night wind hits my face, before doing what Mac used to call 'loading the ace'. I bend over, pretending to be fiddling with my boots, but I actually slide one of my silver knives out of its holder and into my jacket sleeve, for faster access. The sudden weight of the blade by my forearm comforts me, and I resume my walk into the shadows surrounding the Riverwater Saloon.

To this day I don't know why Mac called that loading the ace (something to do with 'having an ace up your sleeve'?), but it will always stick with me. She was always coming up with weird phrases like that, almost like she had in-jokes with _herself_. Catching myself, I slam any further thought of Mac from my mind before the familiar grief wells up inside my chest and threatens to flood my world like a burst dam.

Bingo. As I walk, I can feel eyes fixate on my back; their owner is summing me up, the cogs in his mind turning as he decides whether I'm a good target. My "gift" – or as I like to call it, the damn side effects of being a hunter – is kicking in now. My vision sharpens, my hearing goes crystal clear, and something in the back of my mind itches. That little voice that tells me things I couldn't possibly know, the one that appeared after I swore I'd never hunt again, is getting louder.

_You're being followed_.

I've learned not to question the voice, and instead I cooperate with it like the crazy person I am. I add a little stumble to my walk for effect, scraping my boots against the gravel and giggling to myself. _Look, a drunk girl all on her own!_ I sing in my mind. _Easy prey! Come and get me!_

The presence creeps closer behind me. I make a show of pretending to check my phone, before spinning around, plastering an expression of wide-eyed shock across my face.

A gaunt male face looks back at me, his sunken features illuminated by splashes of moonlight. He's clad in an oversized forest-green coat, wisps of thinning hair falling over his forehead. Even if I _was_ some tipsy girl with no idea how to throw a punch, I reckon I could take this guy – underneath that coat I can tell his limbs are spindly and weak, and I tower over his diminutive height.

At his hesitant, deer-in-headlights smile, I give a light laugh, hoping the titter doesn't sound too fake.

"Oh my gosh, you scared me!" I exclaim, mentally kicking myself for using the word _gosh_. I wave my phone. "I've forgotten the number for a cab in this town. I feel like _such_ a tourist."

His smile stays in place as he reaches inside his coat. My body tenses, and I slip my left hand into my sleeve, fingertips brushing cool silver. But instead of a weapon the strange man pulls out a bouquet of somewhat-wilted flowers, presenting them to me with a flourish. After a confused pause, I leave the knife out of sight and resume my act.

"Peonies," I breathe, clasping a hand to my chest. "My favorite! Are you some kind of magician?"

_Blade over your left shoulder, now!_

With a flick of my wrist, my knife slides out of my sleeve and into my waiting palm. I don't even look as I follow the voice's instructions, spinning the knife in my hand and slamming it above my left shoulder. It's not until I hear the short scream that I even know for sure something was there.

Turning my upper body to keep both Green Coat and this new opponent in sight, I come face-to-face with what used to be a shabbily-dressed woman with ratty grey hair. Her teeth are bared but her face is frozen in a mask of agony and shock, staring down at the blade I'm holding embedded in her heart. Her body begins to blacken and disintegrate, as if the knife contains a flesh-eating virus.

Whoever these two are, they're susceptible to silver. Handy.

Green Coat gapes in horror as his partner slowly turns to dust – before spinning around and bolting.

I barely register the clatter of my phone hitting the ground as I lunge after him, tossing my knife from my left to my dominant hand. He's fast, but I'm faster, and I have the advantage of surprise. He hasn't even made it to the tree line when I knock him to the ground, coat fluttering, weak legs kicking. I've got him pinned before he knows it, one knee on his chest, a boot on his arm, and my blade at his throat.

"Where's the girl?" I ask, voice dangerously calm. I can't lose my cool until I get a lead.

"Girl?" he repeats in a pitiful, croaky voice. "What girl?"

Too late. I've lost my cool. With a growl, I slam my arm against his windpipe, pressing harder as he gasps for air.

"Megan Brown," I snarl. "Twelve-years-old. Snatched from her home three days ago. By _you_." I twist the knife in my hand above his face, and his eyes go very still. "Where is she?"

"Twelve-years-old?" he repeats, managing to wrinkle his nose despite fighting for air. "Little young for my taste."

I slam my knife into his wrist, and he gives a whimper so high-pitched it's almost inaudible. The flesh touching the silver begins to blacken and crumble, and I hold the blade steady.

"_Where is she?_" I demand, ignoring the sickening, acrid smell of inhuman flesh burning.

"I don't know!" he screeches, writhing in pain. "I'm serious, we don't do kids! Not enough blood in them. Few hours and they're all tapped out!"

Narrowing my eyes at him, I cock my head slightly, but his gaze tells me he's not lying. Of course. This is _my_ life we're talking about, so of course I run into the only two vetalas within miles, and they have absolutely nothing to do with my case. Well, while I'm at it I might as well make sure they don't have any prisoners.

"Take me to the people you're feeding from, and we'll call it even," I bluff, slowly pulling my knife away. "I'm a _live and let live_ type. I'm only interested in finding the girl. If you don't have her, I'll turn a blind eye to anything else you got going on. Megan's all that matters to me."

Not freaking likely, that turn-a-blind-eye part, but maybe he'll buy it and I can save some folks from becoming vetala snacks.

Green Coat's dull eyes widen with the hope I'm letting him go, and he nods frantically, talking with the agitated excitement of an addict. "I don't have anyone, I swear! We just got here. We just got here and we're starving, see? Karen says, we go scope the bar, pick off someone by themselves. Just one person! Who's gonna know, she says. I promise you, you were the first. We got nobody yet."

_He's telling the truth_.

I lean back a little, grip on my knife wavering. The line between human and monster is nonexistent sometimes. This vetala _will_ go on to kill people, but if somebody saw me straddling a small disheveled guy with the bloodthirsty look I know is on my face while gripping a knife, who would they call the killer?

"You said you'd let me go," Green Coat adds. "You're a good girl. I gave you flowers. I'll be on my way, and we mind our own business. Like you said."

I plunge my knife into his heart, poker-faced as his mouth slackens. His death is quick, but the sight and smell of a once-human body turning to ash underneath you always lingers.

"Sorry," I mutter, getting to my feet and brushing dust off my jeans. "Not that easy." It's getting to be a weird habit, apologizing to some of my kills, but it eases the conscience a little.

A little.

I guess I should think of this as a bonus hunt, but really I'm just annoyed at the lost time. My leads for Carla and Louise's murders are drying up, and their daughters are at stake.

That slow, prickly sensation of being watched returns. Holding still, I grip my knife and my eyes search the shadows of the vacant lot. I can't count the amount of times I've thought the hunt was over, only for some encore bad guy to come crashing out of nowhere and take me by surprise. After a few moments of silence, I decide I need to move.

Gritting my teeth, I slide my blade back into its holster, retrieve my fallen phone, and disappear into the darkness. Looks like tonight is shaping up to be an all-nighter in front of my laptop, pouring over records and photos and newspaper articles while somewhere out there Megan is alone, and terrified.

Focus, Sid. Job to do.

* * *

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	4. Don't Stop Me Now

_**The Kids Aren't Alright**_

**Chapter 4: Don't Stop Me Now**

It's been a long night. No amount of staring at a computer screen, gulping down instant coffee, note-taking and zooming in and out on pictures of Megan's room has brought me any closer to figuring this case out. At first light I rub my bloodshot eyes and drag myself away from my makeshift desk (a rickety wooden table covered in ancient cigarette burns), no longer able to ignore the sunlight streaming in through the motel curtains. I need to refuel. Time to head to the nearest diner for something to eat and better coffee.

Ten minutes later, I'm seated in a cherry red booth at Brocky's Diner, so tired I can barely remember driving myself there. Sinking into the cracked leather cushions, I melt into a bleary mess, pulling my sunglasses down over my eyes. A menu is set in front of me but I barely have the strength to grunt at the waitress – thankfully she's seasoned enough to know that means I need coffee, stat. A major headache has set in, and I can barely think straight. The fact I'm sucking down coffee every two minutes probably doesn't help, but I can't even think about sleeping until I find some clue about what killed Carla and Louise, and where their daughters have disappeared to.

My head is aching so much that I even curse the little _jingle_ of the diner door. I close my eyes and rub my temples, which means I don't see the owner of the heavy footsteps approaching. Someone slides into the seat opposite me and plonks an object on my table. My eyes snap open to see a bunch of flowers sitting by my coffee. Peonies.

Startled, I glance up to see the last person on my mind: Dean, the cute fed from last night. Slowly, I lower my sunglasses, studying the peonies and then Dean. This is not some weird coincidence – it's the same bouquet the vetala offered me in the parking lot last night.

Dean gives me a pointed smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes and tilts his head, daring me to react.

"Heard they're your favorite," is all he says, but in that moment something passes between us and I can feel everything unraveling. I smile thinly in the face of his mute accusation. Damn it. I do not need this, not this week.

Kelly the waitress chooses that moment to arrive, pouring Dean a cup of coffee and glancing back and forth between us. She's plump and weary in her peach uniform, with teased blonde hair piled on top of her head and way too much black eyeliner on for this time of morning.

"I didn't know you had friends in town, Sid," she says, but I get a feeling that's code for _is everything all right here_? Kelly and I bonded yesterday by griping about ex-boyfriends, although I let her do most of the talking. She eyes Dean with undisguised suspicion.

"Oh yeah, me and Sid, we're old friends," Dean says, turning to Kelly with a winning smile. It probably would have had an effect if she wasn't – how did she put it? – off men for life. Kelly narrows her eyes at him, then turns to me.

"This the guy you were telling me about?" she asks dryly, and I somewhat guiltily remember my fabricated story of being on a solo road trip to get away after a bad break-up. Kelly leans forward and whispers, "He's gonna have to do better than _peonies_."

I feel a surge of something then – acceptance? Solidarity? Girl power? Maybe I should visit this town more often, I can actually make friends here. I smile at Kelly with genuine affection. "It's cool, Kelly. He's just a friend. Oh, and there's gonna be three of us, could we get another cup?"

Now it's Dean's turn to look surprised, and I can't hide a flicker of satisfaction.

"Expecting someone?" he asks. There's no sign of the flirting and charisma from last night – Dean's gaze is now sharp, a silent challenge. _He doesn't know what to make of me_, I realize. Could be my advantage.

"Your partner," I answer as soon as Kelly's out of earshot, cocking my head at a huddled young man who just sat down at the counter. Suspected Fed #2, mop of golden brown hair and everything. "Figured he'd want a coffee to go with _The Financial Times_."

Dean sighs, then slowly twists around in his seat. The men make eye contact, and seem to have a conversation purely through facial expressions. Suspected Fed #2 gathers up the newspaper and approaches us, sparing me an uncertain nod. He's something of a gentle giant, with a boyish face and very cautious body movements, as if the world is made of cardboard and he's afraid of destroying something by accident.

"Sid, Sammy," Dean introduces us, patting the younger guy a little too hard on the shoulder as he slides into the booth.

"Sam," the other guy corrects him, brushing Dean away in annoyance. No _Agent_ or _Officer_ there either.

Removing my sunglasses, I size Sam and Dean up, knowing that if push comes to shove I might not be able to take them both on. These guys are six feet of pure muscle and most likely armed. I'm going to have to tread carefully. The weight of the Smith &amp; Wesson on my hip reassures me a little as I try to work out their story.

Obviously Dean and Sam were watching me last night, so they saw me kill. Twice. The way I figure, there's only three possible reasons I'm not in handcuffs right now. One, these guys have never seen a supernatural death before, and have a few questions as to what the hell they witnessed last night. Two, they're federal agents who know about hunters, and might be willing to let the killing slide in exchange for info. Or three, they're feds who also happen to be vetalas, and they don't want to arrest me, they want revenge.

Here's hoping for option number two.

"You gentlemen have any ID?" I ask, stirring the teaspoon in my coffee cup. Might as well verify who they're working for.

Dean gives a slight frown, while Sam looks to him as if he needs my accent translated. "What?" Dean asks, craning his neck as if he misheard me.

"Your badges," I emphasize. After more confused silence I press them. "Look, who are you working for?"

"We don't work for anyone, exactly," Sam finally answers, before gesturing at all three of us. "We're in the same line of business you are."

"Business...?" I'm beginning to think maybe there's a fourth option.

Dean juts his chin towards the charms around my neck, which most people assume are just pretty trinkets I picked up from a flea market. "Let's see," he says, holding up a hand and counting on his fingers. "You're wearing protection charms, travelling solo, you know how to nail a vetala, you got some mean knife skills and you're packing heat at breakfast. You're clearly a hunter."

I freeze, my palms tingling with both relief and dismay. Christ. These guys aren't feds, they're _my_ kind. Hunters. I almost laugh – it's been so long since I've run into fellow hunters that this possibility had never even occurred to me. As Kelly approaches the booth to take our order I wonder with a sigh if she'll serve me a beer for breakfast.

"You folks ready to ord-"

"Three Sunrise Specials, eggs scrambled!" I say quickly, willing her to leave. The longer Kelly hangs around three hunters, the more likely it is she'll end up in some crazy crossfire, and I don't want to jinx this nice girl who in an alternate universe I might have been friends with. Kelly reels in confusion, before nodding and backing away. Lowering my voice as she disappears, I lean forward.

"It's a little early for this, isn't it?" I ask.

"What's wrong, you have a late night?" Dean asks, at the same time Sam says, "Early for what?"

"You know," I say to Sam, gesturing with one hand as I reach hungrily with the other for my coffee. I put on a mock macho American accent for effect. "_You don't know what you're getting into. Hunting is dangerous. You're just a girl. This town ain't big enough for the two of us._ Blah, blah."

I've clashed with territorial hunters before, if you can't tell.

"That's not exactly what we're going for, we're just trying to get things straight," Dean replies, and I raise an eyebrow when I hear my own words from last night quoted back at me. "Doesn't hurt to get things straight, right?"

"Touché," I answer, raising my coffee cup in a sarcastic toast. "So let me get _this_ straight. Did you two know about the vetalas in this area? Were you using me as bait? You didn't do a thing to stop them."

Sam straightens in his seat, holding a finger in the air. "Uh, actually-"

"For all you knew I was an innocent girl," I add, shaking my head.

"Yeah, an innocent girl, ditching me in the can while she goes vetala hunting," Dean snorts. He spreads his hands wide, looking at me with mock hurt. "I bought you beer and everything. By the time I got out there the things were doing their flower trick. We were about to step in before you went all Gina Carano."

"I have no idea who that is," I mutter.

"Well it's a compliment," Dean says, waving a hand dismissively and reaching for his own coffee. "We saw you waste the uglies, but you bailed before we could, uh, debrief each other. So let's pick things up from there, shall we?"

"Debrief," I repeat flatly. Dean's use of that word makes me wonder if he actually does have a background in law enforcement, maybe even military. I frown, a thought suddenly occurring to me. "Have you been following me this whole time?" Is it possible I've been that careless?

"Well, no," Sam admits with a shrug of his broad shoulders. "We figured we'd track you down today and see what your angle is. This is the only breakfast diner in town, so."

"Got me there," I say as Kelly arrives carrying three plates piled with bacon, scrambled eggs and toast. She pointedly ignores Dean's pleasantries, stopping only to raise her eyebrows at Sam's loudly growling stomach. I hide a smile, pulling my hot plate towards me and salivating at the smell.

"So, my angle," I say slowly, spiking my eggs with my fork and wondering if I even want to be sharing information with Sam and Dean. Pros: if they're legit hunters posing as feds, they could have leads that I've missed, hence speeding up the time it's taking to find Megan. Cons: they might slow me down, or worse, they might not be legit.

"I'm working the Brown case," I say, deciding to risk trusting them. Legit or not, Sam and Dean can access the sheriff's department when I can't, and I could certainly use that help. If they're something else – something worse – well, they're going to regret getting in my way.

"Right," Sam says, nodding knowingly. "And the Fletcher case in Elizabethtown, I'm guessing."

"The Fletcher case?" I repeat before catching on. "Oh, Louise. She was a friend of Carla's."

"In both cases, the victims had broken necks, we have witnesses who claim the bodies were floating in mid-air, and the victims' daughters have gone missing," Sam says, opening his newspaper. Inside are loose sheets of scrawled notes and photos – looks like _The Financial Times_ merely functions as a cover for his case files. Sam rummages for a second as Dean shovels bacon into his mouth. "The missing girls are Ashlee Fletcher… and-"

"Megan," I cut him off impatiently. "Megan Brown. Can I see that?"

"Sure," Sam says, beginning to slide the papers over, but Dean intercepts and plants a hand on top of the pile.

"And the vetalas?" he asks mid-chew, not budging as my hand hovers over the notes. "How'd they fit into this?"

"Coincidence," I say, trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice. "I took 'em out, but they knew nothing about the missing kids. It was just my lousy luck to get jumped by them. Besides, vetalas can't levitate people. We're dealing with something else. Something worse."

"It's always something worse," Dean remarks grimly.

He releases the papers and I snatch them to my side of the table. I inhale sharply as my gaze falls on the crime scene picture of Carla's broken body, trying in vain to keep my expression indifferent. Unfortunately I get the feeling Dean's green eyes can see right through me, recognizing every emotion my face tries to hide. He watches closely as I absentmindedly trace a finger against the photograph.

I am going to _destroy_ whatever was responsible for killing Carla, and if Megan's hurt… I can't even think about that yet.

Sam starts offering me his own theories (they have about as little to go on as I do), but suddenly that all-too-familiar awareness prickles at the back of my neck. As Sam continues talking, I keep my gaze fixed on his, alternating between him and Dean with a flick of my eyes. But I'm actually trying to catch sight of someone outside the window, someone who's been standing outside the diner way too long. Watching us.

Great. I can't tell if Sam or Dean have noticed – the person is outside their line of vision, but just on the periphery of mine. Is it another vetala? Another hunter? A creepy local? I want to check this out, but I don't think it'll be easy ditching Dean a second time. Keeping my smile light and pleasant, I casually pull my wallet and a pen out of my battered satchel, before reaching for the nearest napkin.

"This has been fun, guys," I say brightly, testing the pen on the napkin.

"What, you're out?" Dean asks incredulously. He glances around to make sure Kelly's not within earshot before adding, "I mean, the food here's not _great_, but you're really not gonna finish-"

"Just gotta powder my nose," I reply breezily, being careful to keep everything casual, everything smooth. If my instincts are right, I can't let whatever's lurking outside know that I've spotted it. After scribbling on the napkin, I fold it in half and slide it across the table to Dean, who eyes me quizzically but doesn't take it.

"My number," I explain, miming a phone with my hand and giving Dean an inviting smile. "Call me."

Sam begins to say something but I've already slipped a $20 note onto the table and stood up. Slinging my bag around me, I stride purposefully to the ladies room out back, plan already forming in my mind.

I'm in luck – as I burst into the empty bathroom I spy the window straight away, an honest, old-school window you can climb out of and not one of those annoying fly-wired ones. I swing my bag behind me and hoist myself upwards, grunting a little at the filth and grime I smear all over my hands and jeans as I wriggle the window open.

As I heave myself through the narrow window opening and land onto the gravel outside with a practiced crouch, I remember the hasty message I scrawled on the napkin for Sam and Dean:

_We've been made. White sedan, outside._

Hey, I don't give my number out _that_ easily.

* * *

Bag swinging behind me, I walk as stealthily as possible on the loose gravel, inching my way around the side of the diner to get a glimpse of the parking lot. Peering around the wall, I scan for the white sedan and immediately spot the lurker I'd sensed– it's a young guy, nineteen tops. He leans on the hood of the parked sedan with chubby arms folded and a baseball cap pulled low over his thick red hair, clearly watching Dean and Sam's booth through the diner window. I can't make them out, but I'm guessing Sam and Dean are still eating breakfast. Probably discussing what a whackjob I am.

The redhead doesn't _look_ like a threat, but I've been blindsided by enough innocent-looking people to know that doesn't mean squat. I decide against drawing my gun in the carpark in broad daylight, settling on backing Sam and Dean up from a distance. If this is an ambush, I can take the redhead by surprise.

The diner door rattles and the redhead looks startled as Sam steps outside, closely followed by Dean. As soon as they make eye contact, the kid pushes himself away from the sedan and backs up in shock. Probably not an ambush then. Without wasting a second Sam and Dean take off after the guy as he spins around and flees.

I might not always be the strongest in a fight, but I'm usually the fastest. All those gymnastics tournaments my mum put me through as a kid, all those parkour lessons Mac and I took in Melbourne, all those nights darting across clustered chaotic rooftops in Spain hunting creatures after dark – it all comes thundering back to me every time I give chase.

Hair flying, I cut back through the diner's back alley, past grimy skips and milk crates, kicking off the brick wall and propelling myself upwards in a move I must have practiced hundreds of times. I clear the rickety wire fence and find myself behind the neighboring antique store, calculating that the redhead is probably running past this very second. I dart around the side of the store, tearing down the narrow side alley onto the main street where I can hear Dean yelling for the kid to stop.

Sprinting at full speed, the redhead is busy looking over his shoulder. He doesn't see me or my leg sweep until it's too late.

_Whack!_ The momentum from being tripped/slammed into at top speed sends the kid flying into the alley I just sprung out of. He collides with a pile of boxes and rolls inelegantly to a stop, a crumpled mess against the brick wall. I feel a flicker of guilt when he doesn't move.

"What are you, part jackrabbit?" Dean grunts, skidding to a stop. "How'd you get over here so fast?"

I ignore that, too busy catching my breath and willing the adrenalin rush to fade. "Friend of yours?" I ask between pants.

Sam cautiously approaches the fallen boy, prodding him with a boot. "He's out cold," he announces, bending down to check the body.

"Uh, I guess I hit him a little hard," I say meekly, quietly kicking myself. Rookie mistake, Sid – you can't interrogate unconscious guys. "Is he okay?"

"Ah, he'll be fine," Dean shrugs, sweeping his gaze up and down the street to make sure there are no witnesses hanging around. I do the same, but thankfully the streets are empty. Dean herds me into the side alley with an incline of his head and we slip quietly into the shadows.

"Dean, this is the delivery boy," Sam reveals, voice tinged with surprise. He flips open the redhead's wallet and frowns slightly at the contents. "Josh Olsen-Monks. There's nothing but a driver's license and $4 in here."

"The delivery boy?" I ask.

"Oh yeah," Dean says in recognition, snapping his fingers. "The ginger kid. He was dropping off the mail when we stopped by the sheriff's office yesterday. Y'know, I thought he looked nosy."

"Why would a delivery boy be following you?" I ask, suspicions already forming in my mind. "The sheriff wouldn't send some kid out to spy on you guys."

"No," Sam agrees. "But someone else might. Someone who doesn't like us sniffing around the Brown case."

Inwardly, I let out a sigh. Josh isn't another vetala at least, but if somebody is trying to shut down Carla's murder investigation, that's yet another can of worms in a week that's already chock full of freaking worms. This hole just keeps getting deeper.

A pained groan sounds from Josh's body, and the effect of the noise is like a gunshot. We swoop down on the body but he remains unconscious. No telling how long he'll be out. Sam turns Josh onto his side, carefully making sure his breathing isn't obstructed and his head is cushioned. For some reason this small kindness impresses me.

"I think it's safe to say we're all on the same side, here," Dean finally says, stretching his arms out at Sam and me. "I say we coordinate efforts."

Sam shoots him a bewildered look, as if to say, _coordinate what now?_ They probably aren't used to having a third wheel tagging along on their cases. I'm not exactly thrilled about it either.

"No, I think we should split up," I counter. "You guys are drawing some bad attention. Stay with the kid, ask him why the hell he's following you. I'm going to the sheriff's department to get to the bottom of this."

"Uh-uh," Dean says, shaking his head. "Our cover isn't blown yet. We're going with you."

I begin to protest but Dean cuts me off. "Babe, you hit Josh here like a freight train – 10 for style, by the way – but he's not comin' to for a while. I say me and 'Agent Young' over there pay the sheriff's office a little visit, nose around, see if we can pick out anyone who might know more about the missing kids than they're letting on. By the time Josh wakes up and tells his boss we're onto him, we'll be gone."

"This'll slow him down," Sam mutters. He's rifling through Josh's pockets, and after a second he retrieves the redhead's cell phone and car keys. With deft fingers Sam removes the phone battery and pockets the car keys, before returning the dead cell to Josh.

Straightening up and turning his gaze on me, Sam adds, "Besides, Josh probably didn't see you, Sid. Even if someone's tracking me and Dean, you might not be on their radar yet. If we work together we're at an advantage."

I plant my hands on my hips, but have to admit they have a point. This could be a mutually beneficial relationship – if only I wasn't so rusty with the whole _playing nice with others_ thing. But hey, I'm a fast learner.

"All right," I agree. Whatever it takes to find these kids. "We better move. We'll take my car."

Dean snorts, swinging a set of keys around one finger and slinging an arm around my shoulders. "No baby, we're taking _mine_," he corrects me, steering me out of the alley as Sam follows. "You'll see why."

Together, Sam, Dean and I pretend we're walking casually back to the diner parking lot, ignoring the fact we just lifted some guy's car keys and left him unconscious in an alley. I shrug Dean's arm off me, opening my mouth to make a smartass remark before stopping dead in my tracks.

The boys have stopped by a sleek black muscle car with Kansas plates – it looks like a 1960s model Impala, and it is in _showroom_ condition. I try to conceal how impressed I am, but can't help a smile when I see Dean's tough-as-nails exterior melt and his eyes light up as he unlocks the car. Sam catches me tracing a finger reverently along the chrome, and I grin sheepishly at him as he laughs and swings into the passenger seat. I slip into the back and discover the Impala's interior is just as sexy as the exterior – I should probably think about taking better care of my jeep.

"So, first stop, crooked sheriff's office?" Dean asks, bringing the engine to life with a roar. He catches my eye in the rear-view mirror and winks. "Listen to that purr."

"Sheriff's office," Sam confirms, rummaging through the glove compartment and pulling out two FBI badges that I now know are fake. "And to be fair, we don't _know_ if the sheriff's behind this."

"Soon find out."

As the Impala thunders out of the parking lot, I scan the other odds and ends lying around the dashboard – an army man that's been shoved into the ashtray, empty food containers, spent ammo, spatters of rock salt. This is a hunter's car, that's for sure. My eyes fall onto a box and I gasp and eagerly lean forward.

"Holy shit!" I blurt out in excitement. "Are they cassette tapes?"

* * *

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